Solemnly Swear

by Nancy Moser

  Or was it?

  With a start she realized how snobbish it was to arrange these people according to net worth. Jonathan Cummings was worth more than Bobby, who’d said he worked at a burger place, or Joe the ponytailed truck driver. Susan the schoolteacher and the other woman, Ann, whom Deidre had seen showing off pictures of her kids were someplace in between. Or so weighed the levy of her first impression.

  Her eyes were drawn to the defendant. Patti was on the low end of the social balance sheet. A dishwasher with no sense of style, little education, and few chances to move away from the mediocrity of her life.

  Just like you. She’s just like you. Were. Once. Not that long ago.

  Deidre shook her head, then realized anyone watching might think she was reacting to something the prosecutor was saying.

  She had no idea what the prosecutor was saying. And wasn’t it inexcusably vain to even think that anyone would be watching her during a trial? This trial wasn’t about her.

  Not exactly.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the movement of the juror in the seat beside her. The woman’s nails were at least an inch and a half long and were painted magenta with little rhinestones imbedded in the polish. Now there was something Deidre would never see at one of their black-tie events.

  Deidre curled her own fingers under. She’d had the acrylic nails taken off because she kept breaking them. And in the past few months she’d gotten back in the habit of biting her own nails. Nasty, nasty habit.

  Fingernails. Fingerprints. They were swearing in the fingerprint expert. Next to DNA, it was often the most damning.

  Deidre had seen the forensic TV shows where they could get prints from nearly anything now. Just one print was all it took.

  A sobering thought.

  Cummings stepped forward, his face all business. “Mr. Maddox, what is your title?”

  “I’m a criminologist with Taney County.”

  “How long have you worked there?”

  “Ten years.”

  The defense lawyer stood. “We accept Mr. Maddox as an expert in his field, Your Honor.”

  “Noted,” said Judge Abrams. “Proceed, Mr. Cummings.”

  Cummings went to the evidence table and brought over the broken wine bottle. “Did you find fingerprints on this bottle, the bottle used to hit Mr. Lerner over the head?”

  “Yes.” Maddox nodded at Patti. “The victim’s and the defendant’s.”

  “Any others?”

  “No.”

  Cummings strolled toward the jury box. The jurors couldn’t help but look at the murder weapon. The sharp edge of the bottle made the teacher in the front row draw back.

  “Were other items checked for fingerprints?”

  “The house, as was the patio area.”

  “Your findings?”

  “The house was full of fingerprints belonging to three dozen individuals, as well as the victim’s. Of course.”

  “Of course. And of those three dozen individuals, did you find the prints of the defendant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In the entry, living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, master bath...”

  Cummings held up his hand. The picture was clear. Patti had the full run of the house. “Let’s focus on the patio area, near the hot tub.”

  Maddox shifted in his chair. “Unfortunately, there weren’t a lot of surfaces that were conducive to prints. The tub was Plexiglas, it was wet, and it was the kind that is built into the concrete. Though we did find some of the defendant’s prints on a chair on the far side of the patio.”

  This didn’t seem to help the prosecution.

  The face of the witness brightened, as if he remembered something. “But her prints were on the wineglass we found toppled near the tub.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Maddox.” Cummings nodded and walked toward the prosecutor’s table. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Stadler?” Judge Abrams said.

  If Cummings made Deidre feel she was in the company of a peer, Stan Stadler made her cringe. He was the before to Cummings’ after makeover.

  The defense attorney rose, hitched up his pants, and pushed his glasses onto his nose. “Mr. Maddox, how many wineglasses were found at the scene by the hot tub?”

  “One. It was on its side.”

  “Were there any other fingerprints on the glass?”

  “The victim’s.”

  Stadler angled toward the jury and raised his left eyebrow. “So it seems highly probable that the victim was drinking alone, and upon discovering his body, the defendant merely moved his glass out of the way, hence getting her fingerprints on the glass.”

  Cummings stood. “Again, Your Honor, is there a question?”

  Stadler nodded. “Does it seem highly probable that the victim was drinking alone, and upon discovering his body, the defendant got her fingerprints on the glass by moving it out of the way in order to give him aid?”

  “I wouldn’t say probable.”

  “Possible?”

  “Sure. It’s possible,” Maddox said.

  Stadler shrugged. “Nothing further.”

  Deidre found she’d been holding her breath. She let it out and grabbed a new one.

  ***

  At lunch break, Abigail saw Bobby sitting on a bench in the courtyard. He wore headphones and was taking food out of a brown paper bag. She went to join him. “May I?” she asked, nodding at the free space on the bench.

  He moved his ear buds to the side, and she was surprised to hear classical music weave its way through the air. She’d expected country or bluegrass.

  “May I join you?” she asked again.

  “Sure.” Bobby scooted over, giving her more than enough room. He took off the headphones and shut off the music.

  Abigail spread her voluminous purse wide and pulled out a tuna sandwich. She looked at the sandwich sitting on his flattened sack. “Whatcha got?”

  He lifted the top piece of bread. “Bologna and mustard.”

  “Want half a tuna for half a bologna?”

  “Sure.”

  He certainly had that word down.

  They traded sandwiches. Abigail wasn’t too keen on bologna and wasn’t even sure why she’d offered to trade. She loved tuna and ate it twice a week. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d succumbed to bologna—if ever. Yet there was something about Bobby Mann that was appealing. The self-deprecating way he tried so hard to listen well, taking careful notes while hunched over his pad like a student worried about a pop quiz.

  Abigail hadn’t taken any notes yet. A finely honed memory was perhaps the biggest perk of being an actress for fifty years. Directors were always shoving a new page of dialogue in your face. “Here. We changed it.” She’d have a few minutes to forget the old and insert the new.

  So far the evidence hadn’t taxed her brain. Even the last bit of evidence from the jogger neighbor, before lunch. He’d heard the scream and called 911. Check. He’d seen Patti at Lerner’s house many times. Check. The only tidbit that had sparked any interest was when he’d added with a smile, “But she was one of many.”

  So the victim was a cad. The plot thickened. And sickened. Poor pregnant Patti.

  Bobby ate his sandwich, looking forward. Looking nervous. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to invade his space. Not everyone liked company the way Abigail did. Not everyone liked Abigail’s company.

  “You’re an actress, right?” Bobby asked.

  She quickly swallowed. “Yes. Abigail Buchanan, star of stage, screen, and soap commercials.”

  He turned enough to eye her. “You do look kinda familiar.”

  “You flatter me, Mr. Mann.”

  He shook his head adamantly. “No I don’t. I have seen you act. Somewhere.”

  She made a by-your-leave motion with her hand. “That’s good to hear. An actor’s worst nightmare is not being seen or remembered.”

  “Do you do shows around here, in Branson?”


  “I’ve been in a few.” But none lately.

  He nodded, then took a bite of a green apple.

  “What do you do, Mr. Mann?”

  “Bobby.”

  “And I’m Abigail. I remember you mentioning a restaurant?”

  He laughed. “Burger Madness. I work concessions at one of the theaters too. And drive a taxi on weekends.”

  “I’d say your work ethic is superb.”

  “Or desperate. I have a wife and two kids, and another one on the way.”

  “I admire you for being such a good provider.”

  He shrugged. “But someday...”

  Ah. An opening. “Someday what?”

  He glanced in her direction, then away, as if catching himself. “Nothing.”

  Abigail angled in her seat to block his disclaimer.

  “Nothing, my left shin. It’s something. Tell me what you want to do someday.”

  He bit the corner off the tuna sandwich, chewed, and took a few deep breaths. “I like woodworking. I like to make furniture.”

  Abigail let her eyebrows rise. It was not what she expected. “You’re an artisan?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But someday?”

  He smiled. “Someday.” He held a Baggie full of Cheetos toward her. She took a couple and enjoyed the cheesy crunch. “You have kids?” he asked.

  “Alas, no.”

  “Married?”

  “Was once, back in the sixties.”

  It was his turn to raise an eyebrow.

  She raised a hand. “I know, I know. The dark ages.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that you don’t look that old.”

  Abigail laughed. “Your wife is a very lucky woman, Bobby Mann. Very lucky.”

  He didn’t take the compliment well. “That’s not true.”

  She didn’t pursue it. “Tell me about her, and your kids.”

  “I met Becky because she spilled her popcorn at a movie. She was with someone else.” He twisted the stem of the apple until it broke off. He put the stem in his sack. “She accidentally spilled her popcorn and her date got mad that she’d wasted his money, and I came to the rescue and told the guy to beat it and helped her clean it up.”

  “Her knight in shining armor.”

  “Most likely a T-shirt and jeans.”

  Abigail shrugged. “How long have you been married?”

  “Six years. We have a son, Tanner, who’s four, and Teresa, who’s two.”

  “When’s the baby due?”

  “Six weeks.”

  “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “We don’t know. We don’t want to know. We’ll know soon enough.”

  “Do you have a T name picked out?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Tanner. Teresa. A T name.”

  He nodded. “Theodore or Tally. My granddad and Becky’s grandmother.”

  “Seems you have it all worked out.”

  “Hope so.”

  He put the half-eaten apple in his sack. “Becky’s a wonderful mom. Patient, loving, smart, pretty.”

  “You don’t have to be pretty to be a wonderful mother.”

  Bobby blushed. “The pretty’s for me. She’s beautiful to me.”

  Abigail felt a pang of a long-forgotten ache. She’d never had anyone adore her like Bobby adored his Becky. “You’re both very lucky,” she said. She was appalled her voice cracked. Was she becoming a sentimental old woman?

  “Blessed,” Bobby said. “Becky doesn’t believe in luck. But she does say we’re blessed.”

  Although Abigail was more familiar with the luck involved with “break a leg” rather than “God bless,” she didn’t argue with him.

  ***

  Deidre was glad Nelly and Karla were out doing errands. She wasn’t up to watching her words with Sig.

  She leaned her head against the cushion of the love seat in the master bedroom, rubbed the place between her eyes, and continued her commentary. “The first witness after lunch was a forensic expert saying there were other long hairs—presumably female—in the hot tub. As well as Patti’s.”

  Sig paced before the fireplace. “Looks like he had other girlfriends.”

  As do you?

  She must have made a face because he stopped pacing. “Don’t go there, Deidre. I told you there’s nothing to worry about. When are you going to believe me?”

  How many times had she heard that in the past six months? Sometimes she wished she were brave enough to have it out, give Sig an ultimatum: “It’s me or them.”

  But every time she even imagined such a scenario she backed down. She couldn’t risk her life, Nelly’s life, even Karla’s life, in a fit of jealous pique. She’d gone to great pains to create this reality for the three of them, and it would be totally selfish of her to take it away because of something as inconsequential as her ego. As long as Sig was discreet.

  Discretion…What was that old saying? “Discretion is the better part of valor”? She wasn’t sure about that, but it sure was the better part of survival.

  In the past months, Deidre had felt the insecurities and determination of the old Dee-Dee return. She’d always been the sort to do whatever needed to be done. When Don had been sick she’d handled it. When he’d died and she’d found herself a single mom with serious financial issues, she’d handled it. When Nelly’s hip problem had gotten worse, when it became clear that her daughter was not going to walk normally or have a normal life unless something drastic was done Dee-Dee had come through. She’d done what needed to be done. She’d found herself a rich, capable, pediatric orthopedic surgeon—and married him. He’d taken away her financial problems and fixed her daughter’s hip. Two birds with one stone.

  Only then had Deidre finally been able to relax, to rest and let someone else do the thinking and handling for a while. No one had been more surprised than she at how fast she’d relinquished the reins of her life.

  Yet in these past few months, since hearing the gossip about Sig’s affairs, since...since all the rest, she’d been forced to take up the reins of her life again. If she didn’t do it… It was kind of sad that the three years she’d had coasting along on the strength of Sig’s care were gone. Deidre had hoped to never be forced into survival mode again.

  Never say never.

  “Deidre? Hello, Deidre?”

  With her eyes closed she’d nearly fallen asleep. She sat up, forcing energy through her veins. “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “I asked if there was any other evidence.”

  “Just someone from the police who said they’d found lots of e-mails from Patti to Brett on his computer. Love notes.”

  “That doesn’t sound like it will help us. Were they threatening? incriminating?”

  “No. But they did sound obsessive. Like she was trying too hard. It was obvious he wasn’t responding like she wanted him to.”

  “She sounds loose, a younger woman who wanted something from an older man.”

  “Or vice versa.” She hoped he caught her innuendo.

  He did.

  “Don’t, Deidre. I’ve told you. Don’t.”

  Yes, he’d told her. He never wanted to talk about Audrey or the others. And she was too chicken to do anything more than sneak in a snide comment when the occasion arose. A marriage counselor would surely urge her to confront her husband in order to conquer the issue—which was why she avoided such experts.

  “So is she loose? A groupie type?”

  Deidre arched her back. “If anything she’s naive, smitten by a suave man who knew how to get what he wanted from her.”

  Sig plucked a marble egg from a brass stand on the mantel. He tossed it from hand to hand. “Do you think the verdict will go against her? There’s motive; there’s opportunity. She acted suspicious running like that.”

  “I don’t know, Sig. It’s pretty circumstantial. The defense gets to bring its witnesses tomorrow.”

  “What do the other jurors think?”

  She was confuse
d. “You know we can’t discuss the trial until we go into deliberations.”

  He put the egg down. “I know you shouldn’t, but I need to know where this is heading. Don’t you have lunch together? Breaks?”

  She didn’t mention that today she’d had lunch with another juror, Ann. But with Ann being the mother of four they’d talked about kids. “We’re on our own for lunch.” She stood and headed for the master bath. After sitting on a hard wooden chair all day she needed the relaxation of a session in the whirlpool tub.

  Sig stopped her in the doorway with a hand to her arm. “Can’t you do something? Anything to make sure…?”

  “I have to be careful, Sig. I can’t break the rules and risk getting kicked off the jury. You wouldn’t want that, would you? Want me kicked off before we even get to the deliberation part where I might do some good?”

  “You have to swing the vote our way, Deidre. I need to feel some hope here. Yet every time I get a glimpse of it, you squash it.”

  Compassion and stress collided. “I’m just telling you the truth. You want me to lie?”

  The befuddled look on his face was strangely satisfying.

  ***

  There were two messages on her answering machine. A busy day in the life of Abigail Buchanan.

  She punched the Play button. “Ms. Buchanan, this is Carl from the Newland Theatre. I’m sorry, but we chose someone else for the part. Please try us again. We’re going to have auditions for the next show in three months and…”

  “Pooh to you,” Abigail said, talking over the blah-de-blah details. She needed work now. Yesterday.

  “Hey, Ms. Buchanan, this is Doris, the casting assistant for the Century Cell Phone commercial? I’m sorry but—”

  Abigail’s finger hurt from jamming the Off button. So be it. Nobody wanted her. She was a has-been. She was a tarnished trophy on the shelf, a trophy so old nobody could even remember its significance, a trophy someone would find in some junk store on sale for a buck.

  I need a long, deep, hot bubble bath.

  If only she had a tub. She used to have a tub. A whirlpool. At stressful times she used to make herself a cup of minty tea, light some candles, blow up her bath pillow, and soak until she pruned or the water got cold, whichever came first.

  But that was two residences ago, when she was working regular and had money. When she lived in NYC, in Soho, she used to hang out at 21 with her theater cronies after the show. She’d worn the latest Bohemian styles, eschewing Jackie Kennedy’s or Audrey Hepburn’s matching dresses and coats for gypsy skirts, hippie beads, and Birkenstocks. Actually, it hadn’t been unusual for Abigail to wear an eighteenth century corset top—borrowed from the costume department of her newest play—with a miniskirt and go-go boots. Eccentricity was a religion, attention, its mode of worship.